Nick's Backstory
by Charlster
Summary: After a numbing divorce, Nick travels down to the Savannah to make the most of the gambling cruise circuit that he had booked for their anniversary. My idea of Nick's past. :D


**I wrote this little Left 4 Dead 2 one-shot for GCSE coursework, and I got an A in it, so I thought I'd upload it here, too! :D**

**Also, I would love you if you'd give me some constructive criticism about it. ;D**

**Well, enjoy!**

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**Nick's back-story**  
_The cruise_

"Another drink, mister?" Cooed the brunette bar maid, slathered in make up in unaccountable quantities. Her eyes, thick with mascara, were steadily fixed on a dark haired man, wearing an expensive white suit, who was slumped against a wall near the stool where he sat.

"My wife just filed a divorce," he paused; his words slurred by more than one too many drinks. Gripping an empty glass with one hand, he rubbed his sore eyes with his other. "I'm in the god damn **Savannah**, and I have enough money on me to feed the whole of freakin' Nigeria for a year. So, yes. Bourbon."

The barmaid sauntered off, grabbed a hefty glass bottle containing the exact poison the man had ordered, along with a small tumbler, and began to pour the glossy brown liquid into it. After placing the bottle back on the shelf, she knelt down to scoop several ice cubes from the small fridge behind the bar. Each ice cube clinked against the glass as they fell into the aged bourbon with a small and contained splash. He looked up at her, frowning slightly as he watched the amount of ice cubes she had put in the glass. Too much ice would water the Bourbon down, but this place was in the south; and an even **slightly** dignified bar would know this. The man reached into his suit pocket, and pulled out a heavily wrapped cigar, and a pocket lighter. He pressed the end of the cigar to his lips, and lit it up, inhaling the sweet scent of tobacco, amongst other things. Returning the lighter to his pocket, he sat up straight, resting his now free hand on the bar top. Pulling an ashtray towards him, he gently flicked the cigar; letting its ashes fall into its keep.

"You got a name, mister?" the brunette spoke again, sliding the Bourbon towards him with a forced smile.

"Nick. Don't bother learnin' it, 'cause I'm not stickin' around long." he grunted, glancing over his shoulder at a group of men speaking in hushed tones to one another.

"Why's that?" she asked, her mind elsewhere as she wiped the inside of a beer glass with a dampened cloth.

"I bought the tickets for this 'gambling cruise trip' for me and my wife. Anniversary gift. But, now she's not coming, and I don't see a point in wasting it. I only came to get my moneys worth from some fat cats that don't know the **meaning** of gambling-" he paused again, gulping down his drink. "-and I don't want to spend one more day in the south. All these hicks are driving me crazy.

"What about the green flu? Heard any news on that?" He sighed, swirling the melting ice cubes around the glass in a circular motion. After flicking the remains of his burnt cigar back into the ashtray, he set the glass down, and ran his fingers through his greasy brown hair. "Last I heard about it was that it hit New Orleans pretty bad. The military are moving in as we speak to evacuate uninfected civilians."

A deafening silence fell for what seemed to be hours as Nick drank the rest of his bourbon. He shakily took out his wallet, and placed a single $100 bill on the bar top. The barmaid quickly scooped it up and opened the till, filing it away. She awkwardly shot a sideward glance at him, hoping that he wouldn't notice the amount of money he had just handed to her. She had learnt in her short career that drunken men normally forget how much they've given you. He stood up rigidly, clamping onto anything he could find to regain his balance. His room was fortunately just across the hall from where the bar and casino where.

After a ten minute journey that involved several members of staff to hold him up and escort him, he made it back to his room. The furniture inside was pristine and untouched; no-one had actually slept in there, even though Nick** had** been on the cruise for three days already. Normally, he would just get drunk and attempt several futile games of poker before falling asleep over a toilet, linked to someone's room, which he had little or no recollection of who they were or how he got there. Tonight, he would sleep in a proper bed, and would wake up the next morning with yet another splitting hangover. He kicked off his brown leather shoes, and slumped onto his king-sized bed as he stared blankly at the colourless ceiling.

Alison was crying again. It was a quiet, lonely cry that seemed to fill Nick's heart with a certain feeling of despair. Normally, Alison would wail and curse; selfishly keeping her voice several levels above deafening. Yet, somehow, she appeared silently reserved. He found himself lying in the same bed they once shared, breathing in her musty, cheap perfume that she had worn every day, even though she had enough money to buy something more expensive. Alison was sat at the end of their bed, holding a slender wine glass weakly. Dark, cloudy wine was sat in the glass, barely wetting its base with its burgundy sheen. She hung her head, muffling her pitiful sobs. Nick sat up straight, moving the duvet only slightly.

"Alison?" He asked quietly, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. She jumped slightly, but attempted to keep her posture.

"Go back to sleep, Nick." She croaked, gulping down the rest of her drink.

"You alright? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just go back to sleep."

He placed a firm hand on her shoulder, a look of concern sunk into his features. As he gently pulled her to face him, he noticed the obvious redness of her eyes. She was trembling. His eyes fell to several wine bottles broken and lying on the stained carpet. "Alison, please."

She turned her head away from him, abruptly bursting into a violent fit of coughing. She covered her mouth with one wavering hand while gripping her throat with her other. Her talon-like fingernails pierced the skin, letting the slightest amount of blood trickle from her neck. Nick moved his own hand from her shoulder, hesitating. She separated her hand from her throat, staring blankly at the blood marking her fingers. "I feel... Ill." She muttered, breathlessly. He sat there, helplessly; not able to move. It was almost as if the bed sheets had clamped him down. She cupped both of her hands around the gashes either side of her gullet, which began to pulsate with blood in a much fiercer manner than before. As it seeped through her fingers, Alison gazed at him; her eyes brimming with tears that spilled down her cheeks. Her cries weren't in sadness; only in fear. Her neck, now mutilated and seeping, sagged down as her jaw began to crack and rest against her collarbone. She gurgled pitifully as she now could not speak, due to the sheer amount of blood rising from her vulnerable lungs. With her jaw now completely dislocated beyond repair, she jerked forward, shooting a vicious spray of blood at the cream apartment wall, staining it to a reddish-brown colour. Finally, as if giving up, she slumped to the floor; not breathing. The only movement was of the blood that leaked from her insides. He watched powerlessly, in despair; in anger.

It was that same dream again. The same disgusting, horrifying and mentally scarring dream that had been following him like a lost dog for the past 4 weeks straight. Ever since Nick's wife had slung her wedding ring to his feet. Ever since she carelessly but purposefully threw his prized selection of alcohol from its shelf, onto the floor. Ever since those turn of events, he figured that she would never come back; not under any circumstances. Alison had told him that their divorce had nothing to do with the green flu, and that she hadn't caught it. Keeping that in mind, she said that she had allegedly stopped smoking when she was 19. He knew where her stash was, and the fact that it was refilled every weekend when he went out gambling. This had gone on for 3 years. Nick knew a good word for her so-called quitting.

He slowly hung his legs over the side of the bed, and sat with his head in his hands. The impending hangover was slowly surfacing from the back of his aching head. Nick wiped his forehead, removing the cold sweat that was slowly trickling down his face. He took off his suit jacket and belt, exhaling forlornly while hauling himself up from his bed. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt before wandering into the en-suite bathroom. An indescribable stench wafted from the toilet, which was extremely off-putting. However, Nick had already smelt **himself,** and declared that he smelt worse; like a skunk in heat. He shoved the cap into the plug hole of the sink, and unleashed the spray of water from the one working tap in the bathroom. Unbuttoning his shirt, he plunged his face into the cool water now gathered in the basin. It was gently refreshing, as Nick had constantly felt sticky and uncomfortable since the first day of his cruise. He pulled a bedraggled towel from the nearby rack, and rubbed it over his face and hair. The face in the dirtied mirror looked gaunt; the result of copious amounts of alcohol and an overall rough month. Using a frowsty flannel, he cleaned himself up, sighing.

After finishing up in his room, he exited and locked the door. Nothing of any value was left inside; his wallet and mobile were always in the same inside pockets of his suit. Making sure everything was secure was just another habit that Alison had drilled into him in the year they had spent together, as a married couple. It had become a second nature to him. When he was drunk, the hallway seemed much longer; carpet was dancing and the walls were spinning as he continuously fell over and clamped onto the door handles of other residents' cabins. Everything was more tasking when you were smashed. However, now sober, Nick realised it wasn't as lengthy as he first expected. The flooring was coarse, lined with cigarette butts and ash, and splashes of what he hoped were discoloured water. It wasn't long before he reached the awfully familiar bar, where the same brunette was adjusting a medicinal mask to her face. She was hastily taking the bottles of alcohol from the shelves, and placing them in cardboard boxes that lined the bar top. He ambled over, leaning casually against the polished surface.

"What's up?" he asked, pulling out a packet of high-quality cigarettes.

"We're heading to dock, sir." She stated. "The last thing we need is all the patients **dying** out here."

"Patients?" he paused. "What patients?"

"Green flu carriers." She explained, pulling out an almost empty bottle of Vodka, and undoing the top. Taking a quick swig of it, she tossed it into the nearby bin. Another employee walked over, and started to tape over the boxes, labelling them. He glanced at the woman, then at Nick. Fumbling through his pockets, he produced a face mask, and handed it to him.

"We have at least two dozen established cases on the ship already, sir. Maybe even more, unconfirmed. It'd be wise to wear it." The man nodded. "We should be arriving at the port soon."

Nick took the mask, and watched the man walk away, before slinging it to the floor nonchalantly. He didn't care about the green flu. For all he knew, it could just be another Swine flu; blown way out of proportion. Nothing humanity could throw at him would affect him anymore. He'd been through too much crap to care. There was a sharp hiss from the intercom, before a shaky voice cleared their throat.

"... Please can all members of staff and residents on the cruise make their way to the main entrance, where you will be escorted from the ship. We apologise for the sudden change of events, but we are under strict orders from the military to bring all ships and personnel back to land. Thank you."

Nick arched a brow, lighting his cigarette up, and taking a long puff of it. He exhaled, blowing a long plume of smoke into the air. The brown-haired barmaid finished putting the alcohol into the boxes, and pulled out a pen and paper from the pocket of her skirt. She scribbled down a number, and handed it to him.

"My name's Shelly. If you want to call me, feel free." She nodded, smiling behind her mask. He gave her a bemused look, before taking the paper and putting it into his pocket. Nick walked from the bar, following a few members of staff to the main door. Pulling out the paper just given to him, he tossed it into a bin. He had made the decision never to date or 'call' hayseeds and yokels when he was a teenager, and abode by the same law ever since. However, he was still pleased that a demanding year of marriage hadn't sucked his charm out of him.

It was fairly bright outside, just after 1pm.

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**So, what do you think? Should I extend it?**

**Please review~ **

***Shuffles away shiftily* c:  
**


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